


I wanna drown barefoot in your sweetness

by glossary



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, Growing Up, Light Dom/sub, Non-Negotiated Kink, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:43:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glossary/pseuds/glossary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Good boy,” she murmurs against his throat. He goes impossibly still – she’s got enough time to think <i>huh</i> before she’s fast asleep. The next day it feels like a dream, the way that the sweet memories from childhood go hazy and glow at the unravelled edges, so she wouldn’t even notice it if—well. If she weren’t impossibly in love with him.</p><p>But she is. So she notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I wanna drown barefoot in your sweetness

**Author's Note:**

> this is a jakink fill. as this is the first thing i publish on ao3 - i like the tags but they're bemusing.  
> there are no particular content warnings beyond what's in the tags.

“You knit life with love and despair,” the mother tells her daughter. “For women, every step is a war with pain. Nothing will come easy to you, Jupiter.”

The bedroom is quiet and dimly-lit, in the early hours of the morning. They look alike, in the way that two trees in the same forest look alike – but the young one still has hope burning in her eyes, scalding her throat. The mother wears her sadness like a favourite ball gown: nothing could break her because something hurt her deep and she hasn’t allowed the wound to close. (What’s the point of breaking what’s already broken?)

“But,” the mother says, and touches her daughter’s cheek: smooth with youth, pink with health, “my beloved daughter, it will be worth it.”

* * *

She moves out of the house. The room she’s shared all her life with her mother and aunt seems ill-fitting now – a darling sweater she’s grown out of – and so she leaves. Her savings aren’t big enough to be able to afford anything but a hole-in-the-wall flat with two tiny rooms and a bathroom, which is so small she can touch both walls if she stands at the centre and spreads her arms, but it’s one-hundred percent hers and she decides she likes it. It’s close to the community college, where she’s taking a bunch of different courses to figure out what she’d like to do with her life, and Caine would follow her even if she was sleeping on a bench in the park, so.

The landlady is a woman in her fifties who has hair like Sophia Loren’s, if Sophia Loren had blond hair born out of a rushed dye-job in a cracked sink. She smokes and paints her lids an unashamed shade of blue, and Jupiter’s pretty sure she catches sight of a knife when the landlady’s jacket flips open for a second, so afterwards she makes sure not to stare too directly.

“When can I move in, ma’am?” she asks – extra polite, since she’s pretty sure the landlady could take her out with one hand tied behind her back.

“Call me Norma,” says the landlady. Her voice’s a rough smoker’s rasp. Jupiter thinks she’d do well recording audiobooks for racy romances, the sort that says stuff like _turgid member_ and _manly needs_. “Whenever you want to, sugar. I expect payment the first of the month, no excuses allowed, and you can bring your boyfriends about but take care to be quiet about it, alright? Mrs. Rosenberg down the hall has the sharpest ears this side of the universe, and I don’t want to be bothered at five in the morning because she feels it’s her civic duty to inform me I’ve allowed a tart in the premises, is that clear?” Norma pointedly gives Jupiter the eye.

She can feel herself flushing a little. “Um. I’ve only got one boyfriend.”

“When I was your age I had four,” Norma says, and somehow her unmoving face conveys disappointment. “Young people have no ambition.”

Caine helps her with the boxes. There aren’t as many as she’d imagined – mostly clothes and books (her parents _were_ college professors). The flat doesn’t come with furniture, which Jupiter doesn’t actually mind because it’d probably have enormous dicks carved everywhere, so the first night they’ve got to sleep on a mattress in the floor. Jupiter’s so tired that the only reason they’re covered with a blanket is that Caine tucks her in carefully. Her bones are made of lead, but she reckons he deserves it, so – she raises her arm and touches his neck, fingers catching behind his ear.

 “Good boy,” she murmurs against his throat. He goes impossibly still – she’s got enough time to think _huh_ before she’s fast asleep. The next day it feels like a dream, the way that the sweet memories from childhood go hazy and glow at the unravelled edges, so she wouldn’t even notice it if—well. If she weren’t impossibly in love with him.

But she is. So she notices.

* * *

It’s the first time in her life she’s ever felt so much like an adult. It’s distressingly lonely, in that pleasant way that means fresh rain in autumn and an empty bed the morning after: taking away everything you don’t need. Jupiter looks at herself in the mirror of the bathroom, standing in underwear that doesn’t match and nothing else, and tries to divine her bones under the golden sheen of her skin. She’s raw, and brand-new, and bare to the marrow.

It’s fantastic.

“You’re happy,” Caine says, while Jupiter’s trying to French-braid her hair.

Jupiter blinks, startled. “Um, what brought this about?”

He smiles at her, and pads silently to stand at her shoulder. Kisses the vulnerable nape of her neck and she goes limp with trust and delight, that surprised realisation that won’t go away: _someone loves me, I’m loved, I’m special_. He moves her hands away and braids her hair carefully, gentle and watchful — if you asked Caine Wise for the most beautiful, brightest jewel in all the universe he would touch her hand and not ever dare to grip it, because one must be careful with flowers.

“A man of many talents,” she says when he’s done, turning to look at him. He ducks his head, shy, and on impulse she hugs him, stands on tiptoes to press her mouth against his cheek, down his mouth, bumping his chin. She lays her head against his collarbone and presses her thumb against the hollow of his throat, says, “Thank you, Caine,” with a fresh simplicity that somehow is…

Red creeps up his chest, his throat. Jupiter watches in fascination as it pinks his ears – an abominably lovely thing that makes her laugh. She kisses him again, a proper grown-up kiss with a lot of tongue – he goes soft against her, endlessly open. She touches his back, draws a line down until she reaches his hips, and then slips a hand inside his boxer briefs. He’s half-hard already. Jupiter closes her hand around him – her fingers can’t quite touch – and squeezes once. He makes a broken noise, and they break the kiss: he mouths her, breathes her in, his neck bowed. Jupiter steps even closer, pushing her breasts against him.

“No,” she says, when he tries to touch her. His arm falls at his side again, limp, and because he’s so good at following orders she starts pumping, slow and intense, kisses his jaw – the well-loved point under his ear. He smells like sleep and sex and Caine. “That’s right,” she murmurs. “You like to do as I say? You’re so sweet and obedient, I like that, Caine, I like you so much—”

It’s enough to make him come. He stiffens in her loose embrace, a small sound escaping him – and then he spills in her hand, breathing in and out as evenly as he can. He leans against her – his knees have gone weak, she guesses – but he doesn’t touch her, and it makes her smile. Their kiss is sweet, fond, and as she leads him to their bed-in-training (the mattress on the floor) she thinks back, remembers _thank you for saving my life_ and his eyes looking away, the pleased quirk of his lips.

Starts to smile.

* * *

She begins the conversation with: “If your Olympic boyfriend had something he liked—”

Her hours aren’t as long now that she’s in college —plus she’s got a part-time position as an office aide, mostly making photocopies and phenomenal coffee— but she still manages some regulars, and Katharine’s one of her favourites. Jupiter knows her house, the sophisticated paintings and understated elegance in every room, and when she looks at Katharine’s jewellery box she can smell her own longing for something better. It’s nostalgic the same way that seeing your childhood bicycle is nostalgic.

“Yes?” Katharine asks, blinking her doe eyes. Her pretty face blooms into an impish smile. “Oh? Oh, don’t tell me you’ve got a boyfriend, Jupiter!”

“Um, yeah.” She can feel herself blushing a little. “We haven’t been together for long, though. Two months, maybe?”

“Plenty enough time to know if you’ll fall in love,” Katharine says, delighted, and abandons her make-up on the vanity to turn her attention to Jupiter, who drops her mop. They sit on the bed, heads close: gossiping girlishly, the pure pleasure of sharing boy trouble with a friend. “Well? What’s the verdict?”

(Katharine’s a lawyer. She uses words like _verdict_ a lot.)

Jupiter tucks her hair behind her ears. “Um, I think so. Yes. Yeah, definitely.” Her face’s red and her smile honest.

Katharine giggles against Jupiter shoulder. Her blond hair smells like vanilla and coconut. “I’m so happy for you! What was it that you wanted to ask me?”

“Well…,” Jupiter trails off, trying to find a diplomatic way to put it. “It’s just… because we clicked together so quickly, sometimes I worry that there are things I don’t know – things I _would_ know if we had taken our time. I mean, we’re living together,” she explains, “and when that step comes by you usually know all the little quirks, right?”

“Right,” Katharine agrees, rapt.

“What if… What if I’m making him unhappy because there’s something he doesn’t want to tell me? Something that would make him uncomfortable to tell me?” She looks at her scuffed shoes. “I don’t want him to be unhappy.”

Katharine tries to keep her smile in check, but she’s frankly awful at it. “Sounds to me like you know exactly what he doesn’t want to tell you.”

“It’s more like I suspect—”

“A woman’s intuition is never wrong,” Katharine declares. “What is it?” She lowers her voice. “Kinky stuff? Does he want to call you Mama and have you whip him?”

An unwilling shudder runs through Jupiter. She remembers her face throbbing, the scream, the shaking hands – _I’m not your damn mother!_ That kind of play will never hold interest for her.

“No,” she says, making a face. “No, it’s… more subtle than that. But.” Takes a deep breath. “It does… have to do with the bedroom. Kind of.”

“It’s definitely in Fifty Shades of Grey territory,” Katharine says, arching an eyebrow, “isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

This is how you know someone doesn’t read fanfic, Jupiter thinks wryly, they believe Fifty Shades of Grey is the height of kinky. “Yeah. Anyway – he doesn’t _ask_ , so I’m not sure I’m reading the signs right. He comes from…,” space. “He comes from – um – another culture, so it’s sort of—”

“Oh, I get it,” says Katharine, knowingly. “No, no problem. I’d say the easiest way to see was test it, right? Tell him _you’re_ interested in trying whatever it is that he likes…,” she lets the sentence drift off hopefully, in hopes of having Jupiter explain, and when she only receives a poker-face stare, continues with resignation: “Tell him you’re interested, that you want to try it. Believe me, noticing if he likes it or not will be easy.”

That makes sense, Jupiter reflects. It’s not like it’s a big deal – just words, and they’ve had long talks: about what they’ve done and where they’ve been and what their lives have been like. She could talk to him for hours, could drink him down like a cup of tea or a shot of vodka. Her lashes lower thoughtfully.

“I guess your mother couldn’t make a cynic out of you,” Katharine whispers.

“No,” Jupiter muses, and laughs. “Or maybe he let it fall out of me.”

* * *

While she ponders how to do it, he goes off-planet with Stinger for three weeks. Jupiter kisses him goodbye and he smiles at her, that cautiously happy smile like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to have her. She feels like someone’s got a fist gripping her throat – thinks: _you knit life with love and despair_ – and lies on the bed he’s made before leaving. The window’s open a bit, to let in the fresh air, and the late afternoon shines on her, makes her glow. She closes her eyes, remembers him watching her as she wakes up, the way he says _Your Majesty_ when she’s being a brat, amused and fond. For her he would crawl on his knees over broken glass and as long as she said _you were so good_ after, he’d be thankful. Happy.

Jupiter takes her phone out of her jeans pocket and googles _praise kink_ , and only stops when her sweating fingers slip and accidentally drops the thing on her face. Rolls over, rubbing her nose, and falls asleep still clothed, achingly lonely the way that quiet houses feel: like a missing limb.

Life keeps going. She takes a philosophy course – the professor is skinny and wild-haired and about fifty – and reckons her mind explodes about twice every class. She makes friends with the secretaries, learns the tricks of the photocopy machine and accepts homemade cakes in exchange for her magnificent coffee. Wonders if Caine likes chocolate, wonders what he’d think about her class, wonders about space ethics, wonders what humanity can be conditioned to accept. Wonders how can she miss him so much and still stay anchored to Earth?

* * *

 The door closes with a neat click, and she wakes up anyway.

Her eyes open, but she lies still for a second. Then she sits – the blanket slides off – and holds her breath, wondering if she’s hearing things (wouldn’t be the first time she’s dreamt he’s back and opens her arms to kiss him hello, embraces only emptiness and her own longing, like a sailor always looking for the ocean in the distance). For a long moment everything’s quiet, except for the faraway sound of a police car and some loud music that incites the listener to _sha-sha-shake it_ , and then there’s a thump. _He’s taking off the boots_ , she realises, and ponders how strange it is, that she knows him so well (loves him so well) that she can simply tell what he’s doing.

Gets up, and peeks out of the bedroom. Hasn’t turned up the lights, of course, he wouldn’t want to wake her up – even though Jupiter can’t imagine him bothering her in any way whatsoever – and he’s already watching the doorstep, utterly immobile, head cocked to one side.

“Caine,” she says, and notices she’s smiling.

“Your Majesty,” he answers her. His warm attention.

Jupiter lowers her lashes. “Come here, please,” she says, and it’s half a question. She hadn’t thought much about it before – it’s not like he’s the first boyfriend of hers to want a pretty, petite girl with smoky eyes and a bright grin to tell him what to do and when to do it – but he’s unlike anyone she’s ever known before, and not only because he’s the most important. She supposes _different culture_ is as good a way to express it as any.

He comes. He’s barefoot, and his toes grip the floor lightly as he walks. When he stands before her she rests her cheek against his chest and threads their fingers together (he squeezes back, careful not to crush her). He’s delightfully warm.

“Welcome back,” she says, hushed. “Shall we go to bed?”

“If it pleases Her Majesty,” he answers, low.

She swallows. “Yes. Very much.”

Wordlessly, he allows himself to be led towards their mattress. She’s been missing him for millennium, she thinks, _obviously_ it’s been longer than three weeks because three weeks wouldn’t cause this sort of wildness within a woman. Jupiter undresses him carefully – first his shirt, the odd belt, his wristband. Touches his trousers at the same time her free hand creeps up the side of his neck, until it reaches his hair, and pulls. He makes a wet noise.

“Jupiter,” he sighs.

She shushes him. “Be quiet,” she says, not unkindly. “Be a good boy, yes? Put your hands behind your back, and don’t move.”

His eyes flash, once. His head dips in a nod. Jupiter makes him kneel. He’s not wearing any underwear, and it makes her purr a laugh against his ear as she palms his shoulder blades, the dimples at the small of his back. She licks his nipple, exploring the curves of his strong body – all that strength, laying itself at her feet because she’s a queen – because he thinks she’s a queen. Jupiter makes him sit on his own heels and swallows his cock with little fanfare: she goes deep and sucks, mouth wet and wanting, looking up at him. His pupils are blown wide, his irises a thin line encircling the black. She lets go with a slick _pop_.

He hasn’t even rocked. “You didn’t move,” she says against his thigh. “Well done, Caine.” Licks his balls, squeezes his cock at the base to help him hold it in. He’s fully hard now, and she taps him with a nail him just to see the muscles in his legs tighten. His back arches.

Jupiter pushes his trousers until they’re just under his knees, and sucks him off for a while. She’s methodical about it, starting with tiny exploring licks, putting just the head in her mouth, then going deeper, gripping the base she can’t suck, squeezing whenever he forgets himself and lifts his hips. He doesn’t speak: instead, he lets out small broken whines that sound half-torn, like it’s so good it hurts. She likes them, so she straightens and kisses him, only their lips touching. They part with a sticky noise.

“You’re leaking,” she notes, endlessly curious even though it’s not his first time. He flushes violently, red on his chest and his shoulders, his neck, his ears. His cock: beaded with come, so much it drips. She’s pretty sure it’s thicker than a normal human’s. “You liked that? Answer me.”

“Yes,” he says. His voice’s wrecked, rasping. She smiles at him. He stares at her like he’s starving.

“Good,” she says. “And you did just as you were told, too—you’re so beautiful, and so obedient. I liked that a lot. You know what else I’d like, Caine?”

He shakes his head slowly, gaze fixed on hers. Jupiter sits back and spreads her legs. She’s wearing a navy blue man’s shirt and her knickers, and she hooks her finger in the later enticingly. Caine’s mouth opens a little.

“You want to?” she says. “Talk.”

“I—I want to,” he says, lashes lowered.

“Do it,” she commands. “With your hands, too.”

She notices his wrists are white – he must’ve been gripping himself to avoid touching her, touching himself – that control gets her off like a jolt of heat straight to her guts. He kneels on all fours and licks her slowly over the fabric of her underwear, sucking her clit suddenly. Jupiter’s spine goes weak. She takes off her knickers and allows him to do as he likes for a while—one time he ate her out for a whole hour, he’s _very_ good at it—mostly precise strokes of his tongue, until she says _fingers_ and then he touches her as well. His thumb presses inside while the tip of his tongue circles her clit and she clenches suddenly, violently. He slips his index and middle finger inside her pussy, scissoring. Jupiter pants, remembers to hold his hair.

She pulls, not hard enough to hurt – just enough to be felt. “Good,” she says, shakily. “Very good, darling – just like that, yes, yes… Caine…”

Her voice hitches as she says his name, and she notices that his hips are humping the hair, the muscles of his back shifting like the surface of the water as he moves, and somehow that does it for her. She comes, and he licks it greedily, tries to get even deeper, his fingers scratching the mattress – catching on the loose threads with a rough sound. Jupiter pets the nape of his neck and then pushes him away.

“Sit on your heels again,” she says. While he does so she gets up and gets behind him, skin-to-skin, her half-unbuttoned shirt allowing one of her breasts to press against his back. He shudders once, when she starts to kiss his neck delicately, nothing more than brushes of her mouth. Her hands find his cock and grips, pumps slowly. “Don’t come,” she says quietly. “Caine, do you hear me? Do you want to be a good boy?” He nods jerkily. She grips harder. “Answer me out loud, Caine. Do you want to be a good boy?”

“Yes,” he hisses. It sounds like it’s been wrought out of him.

“Then don’t come,” she says. “You won’t, will you?”

“No, Your Majesty,” he says brokenly. She wipes the come at his crown and slicks her way with that – it’s almost ridiculous how much he’s leaking. She kisses the spot behind his ear in praise, and then pumps hand, faster and faster. Caine gets stiffer with every passing moment, and when he’s so still that his back could be made of metal, she opens her mouth and bites the back of his neck.

He makes this sound—when Jupiter is fifty-eight years old she will remember that sound and smile a secret smile to herself—this sound like she just sucked his brain out of his cock—this sound like—there aren’t enough words. It’s a whine and a moan, and she bites harder and he shakes. She squeezes the base of his cock for a long moment, until he’s quiet and merely trembling, almost vibrating.

“Good boy,” she says, licking the bite. “You were so, so good, you didn’t come just like I told you, I can’t believe I’ve got such a good boy…”

It’s nonsense mumbling. She knows it works because, when she makes him turn his head, she can see unfallen tears glitter, caught in his eyelashes. Jupiter makes him turn around, lies flat on the bed and spreads her legs.

“You can go inside now,” she says, amused at his obvious longing. “But slowly. Go inside slowly.”

He takes himself in hand and prods her entrance – then he’s inside, and the stretch is pleasant, a slow burning spark that spreads like a wild forest fire. He pumps in and out slowly, hands delicate on her hips, eyes fixed on her face like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen—Jupiter lowers her lashes, panting.

“Faster,” she says. And then, “Faster, faster, _harder_ , Caine, _please_ —”

Caine goes a bit crazy after that _please_ , but he’s sure as hell going fast and hard and she almost can’t take it, how good it feels, champagne in her veins, buzzing with golden happiness. _This_ , she thinks, lids falling closed, _this, this, always, yes_ —and his hands, squeezing her hips, lifting her leg in one strong hand to find a better angle. Jupiter reaches down to touch herself – his hand is right at the side of hers, to imitate whatever she’s doing – this can’t be real, she thinks, nobody is this perfect, why am I this lucky?

She comes. It explodes out of her, a medley of colour and heat that makes her feel languorous and lazy. She watches him, pacing himself carefully, brows knitted, intent. He won’t come before she allows it, and Jupiter decides to smile.

“Caine,” she says softly. “I love you. You can come now. I love you.”

It’s like he doesn’t understand what she’s saying – he looks momentarily confused and then his eyes widen and his back bows and he’s resting his forehead on her collarbone. He goes almost completely still when he comes. She pets his hair, pets his bite-mark – he whines, but when she tries to take her hand away he whines louder so she supposes he likes it.

“Your Majesty,” he says, still without looking at her, “please say that again.”

Jupiter obliges: “I love you.”

It must be that way he’s got of looking at her. Like the sun rises and sets because she enjoys the warmth, like all the stars in the sky exist because one day she’ll make herself a dark gown with bright blinking lights, like sleeping on a mattress in the floor in a small hole-in-the-wall flat is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He rubs his cheek against hers, and they kiss: shy and kind.

They fall asleep holding hands. It feels a lot like hope.

* * *

The next morning Jupiter wakes up first. For once, he doesn’t immediately open his eyes to stare worshipfully, alert. She ruffles his short hair and kisses his forehead – he mumbles something that sounds like her name – and she gets up to make breakfast. There isn’t much left in the pantry, so she decides to go out, wrapped in his coat, wearing his boots. As she walks down the stairs she’s unusually aware of her own body, of the bruises left by Caine – her hips sparkle with the pleasant pain, the inside of her thighs thrum. She feels half dazed.

In the first floor there are two women in front of an open door: Norma the landlady, wearing a red silk robe, holding a cigarette the way some people hold guns, and someone who, judging by her stern expression, must be Mrs. Rosenberg. She’s in her late forties, and her brown hair is streaked with grey and gathered into a prim bum. She looks like a schoolteacher, the terror of the playground, and when she eyes Jupiter there’s definitely disdain in the twist of her lips.

Norma exhales smoke. She looks like an old dragon who’s seen it all. Jupiter watches her smile, disbelieving. “I saw your boyfriend come in last night,” Norma says, throwing her cigarette to the floor and stepping decisively on it. “I suppose I can understand why you’ve only got one, sweetheart.”


End file.
